in between
moments of feeling
like I am not enough
and worrying
that I am too much
for this world
I am astounded by
my presumption
to know anything
about what the world can take
or what I can
Author: Siena
Writer, Composer, Performer, Music Educator, Woman
On September
decaying sometimes
is a relief after months
of cloying summer
On German Food
Food descriptions in Munisch och Garmisch, Deutschland
huge Turkish sandwich stuffed with lettuce, tomato, fresh parsley springy and green, hot sauce, yogurt sauce, onions, root vegetables roasted and fried, wrapped in a soft bread, like a large, flat pita
blood orange juice, washing over tongue with tang and ache and lust, deep release
fresh-squeezed orange juice, pulp excited jostling in the sweet liquid sunshine
tomatoes red on the vine, waiting ripe and heavy, expectant, in the rough wooden bowl
brambér jam is thick and startling! more flavor bursting and somersaulting than expected, dark and airy at the same time, tangy and bright but also musty and sacred (blackberry jam)
frambér jam is like sauce, or pie filling (strawberry)
hazelnut sweet bread, coated with sugar
strong strong strong, thick coffee at früstück
loose-leaf Earl Grey tea, aromatic and cutting
pretzel and bright orange cheese dip – strong, aged, like a shockingly sharp cream cheese, topped with red onion and green scallions
carrot, apple, ginger, orange juice – overwhelmingly sweet and full of eager carrot pulp
“classic chocolat” creamy sweet clouds of cocoa-filled warmth
a sandy, bitter, and rich “butter” that I guessed to be tamarind paste, but turned out to be tahini date paste, and now I’m wondering what tamarind paste tastes like
white, bloated sausages, large and phallic, floating in water. Chris and I were a bit too repulsed to try them
white, slightly sweet grits, thick and sticky
On Cafe Daydreams
Character sketches at a cafe in Garmisch, Germany
thin waitress wearing light gold glasses and white shirt, very focused and quiet, not interacting with her coworkers much, except with thin-lipped eye crinkles to show appreciation and respect
woman pushing a stroller wearing jeans and a silvery, mirror-like raincoat that falls down to her knees, covering her arms and shoulders, reflecting the light in rainbow pools
dark blue t-shirt on a tan, blond man with a chiseled face and deep-set eyes
blond woman with light blue jeans, dark sandals, and embroidered pants with a rip in the knee
two women with short hair, severe faces, and biking outfits
heavy lash makeup barista with dark red hair tied up in a high ponytail with a thin silver scrunchy, wearing a dark outfit with white stripes down her pant leg and thick white sneakers
woman on her phone wearing a raspberry-colored wide, long dress and a creamy muslin hijab, thick and sturdy covering her head
wide, built woman wearing jeans and a beige t-shirt with gold dots on the front, holds herself as royalty or great beauty
On Rants
Fuck shame.
Fuck trying to control shame
Fuck trying to live well
Fuck chicken
Fuck hot tubs
Fuck tomatoes
Fuck taxes
Fuck entropy
Fuck old dead composers
Fuck using shame as manipulation
Fuck manipulation
Fuck abuse
Fuck our abusers
Fuck this stupid, ugly couch
Fuck being cold
Fuck asking for money
Fuck subscriptions
Fuck Instacart
Fuck smartphones
Fuck anxiety
Fuck weakness
Fuck parenting
Fuck killing
Fuck crafting
Fuck furniture
Fuck clutter
Fuck red
Fuck social movements
Fuck having a public voice
Fuck being
Fuck being human.
On Setting Each Other Free
Our harmonies don’t match yet but our melodies are synced. We complete each other. We are the point where the water falls, freely, through the air over the cliff, a waterfall with nothing holding it back. We are the feeling of mud squishing between my toes, we are a symphony, we are clean sheets. Our love is euphoric, but it is also dangerous.
We are vulnerable because we set each other free.
We are weak precisely because we feel so strong when we are together. We feel invincible, but we are not really that strong. Two lost souls, finally found, never absolved.
On Prayer
Forgive me
I have forgotten
myself
again
Believe me
if I could do better
I
would
Please, I just want
to feel like
myself
again
On My Father
who can cup water in his hands
and drink from it
who can whistle but can’t
explain how to do it
rough hands
warm laugh
tipsy after a single beer
thinks he can’t stop
but he can
who doesn’t know he is held
On Being
it’s okay
it’s okay to let go a little.
it’s okay
it’s okay to feel a lot.
your thin smiles
your spontaneous tears
your exhaustion
your collapse
your cravings for touch
it’s okay.
it’s okay to not be okay.
hope may not be an uncontrollable force,
but a surrender.
On Self-Hatred
I feel off. Just…not fully a person. Not fully living anymore. I feel like my words have escaped me, like I can’t freely say anything to anyone because my brain doesn’t generate the words. I am always thinking “I’m not saying enough” and then I get more worried and it just escalates to a bad place where my insides feel shriveled, dirty, and weak, like now.
Where am I? Why am I doing the things I’m doing? Why am I playing this Bach concerto or calling That Person every night or having almost silent dinners with my family? Why am I doing calculus worksheets and worrying about what I’ll do next year and WHY DO I STILL FEEL LIKE I LIED? I told him. EVERYTHING. I flushed myself of the hidden shit and now look where I am. I’m a fucking quivering mess, afraid of every metaphorical corner of my mind and afraid of what That Person will call me next and afraid of missing something or leaving out something important.
I’m strained and impatient and I clam up. I don’t feel real, I feel imaginary, like a little wisp of cloud or skin or bone and I don’t feel anything in my mind.
Hello?
Anybody in there?
I don’t know why I am still here. I feel like I’m grasping at air, trying to fix That Person’s fear, when really it’s me who needs to be fixed. Me who carried that burden by myself for nine months, me who told him to keep punching me into the ground for it, who wanted to take bricks and give them to him to bash my soul in with. Me who punched my head into his bed. Him who stopped me.
The snow looks nice on the branches outside. It fell in little triangles between each branch and now it looks like tiny white kites. They look perfect for eating.
Obviously there’s something going on in my mind, otherwise I wouldn’t have been able to write all that, or write about the reality of the snow. Right? Right.
March 19, 2013
The Human Poet 